Rush Of Swings
by Chrystalize198
Summary: "She killed herself in front of me. I held her hand as I saw the light disappear from her eyes. That's why there's nothing interesting about my eyes. I died too." Angst EXB OOC AU AH
1. Chapter 1

A/N- This is a story I hold dear to me. It's going to be slightly OOC, and emotional. So I may give some tissue warnings. In the next chapter I'll be able to say when the regular updates are going to be. Enjoy.

Summary: "She killed herself in front of me. I held her hand as I saw the light disappear from her eyes. That's why there's nothing interesting about my eyes. I died too." Romance/Angst

"She's so weird, it happened three year ago and she's still acting like a zombie. Like I understand it's a big deal but come on. I lost my dog last year and do you see me going all emo."

"I heard her telling the guidance counselor that she killed her."

"Oh my God, Lauren, you're lying."

"Nope, honest to God; she ran out of there like a psycho and crashed into me, didn't even say sorry."

Jessica and Lauren, it's funny how we used to be friends.

"Well class," my English teacher looked to her right, out the window. She sighed and rubbed her right palm on her forehead, lines formed between her eyebrows in stress. Mrs. Cullen looked at her watch and let out an annoyed puff of air.

"Its 2:00 o'clock and as you can see," she gestured to the window, "a storm is coming, so let's skip the last 40 minutes of class and I'll just let you all go home. I wouldn't want any of you taking public transportation to get caught in the downpour." Soon the entire class was engulfed in cheers and joyous hollers. I just sat in my seat still and quiet, while the mayhem of joy dissipated with each retreating student.

"Bella?"

I looked up not realizing that I was the only student left. My items scattered around my desk.

Looking at her, I was disappointed to see that Ms. Rizz had 'the look'. The same look everyone gets when they unfortunately set their gaze on me. The look that said 'o dear I hope she's ok' or the much nastier 'she belongs in a psych ward'.

"Yes." I mumbled slowly, gathering my books and placing them in my

large black messenger bag.

I looked away from her face; the familiarity of this situation was unsettling.

"Nothing, I hope you have a good afternoon." she told me, her tone thoughtful. I murmured thanks weakly; I didn't know what to say to her, just like I didn't know what to say when was being given sympathy. I was prepared to ignore her speech about how I should talk to someone about my problems, preferably her. I walked awkwardly to the door, ready to go home.

"Bella," I turned towards Mrs. Cullen's soft voice, she was still seated, her body directed towards me, her hand gripping her wrist. "I know you probably hear this a lot, but you can talk to me if you want. This must be a hard time for you." she messaged her wrist nervously, awaiting my answer. My only response was to nod; she returned the gesture with a curt smile. I shook my head slightly and finally left the sanctuary of my comfortable classroom; only to return to the destitution I called reality.

Aimlessly I walked down the street I knew all too well. Every stone, every pebble, every blade of grass was familiar to me. For so long I wished for familiarity, for something concrete to depend on when all else failed. And now I happened to stumble upon a park that played such a pivotal part of my old life.

In the far distance I saw the swing set, void of any human presence, until now. My lazy walk brought me to the set of swings; one in particular caught my attention. I moved forward slowly before I was able to touch the chains and the cold seat. Without warning, flashes of my childhood ran through my mind. It stifled me, making my eyes close instinctually, the happy cherubic face of a young counter part of me. My wavy brown hair set in low pigtails, the tips brushing past my cheeks. It had to be the epitome cuteness, every mother's dream daughter. If anyone were to see me now they would swear that it wasn't me. My once cocoa brown hair was now a dull short pile of uneven lengths on my head; a product of one night of rebellion fueled by unnamed alcohol and encouraging friends. Unkempt and unmanageable, freckles still intact, but they long lost their cuteness, along with my buttoned nose. I'm not outstanding and I'm not adorable, I'm a 17 year old girl with problems. There are more where I came from.

The memory of my childhood was very clear in my mind. I was happy sitting on the swing waiting for my mom to come teach me how to fly. She walked towards me smiling, it was comforting. Walking behind me she placed a calming hand on my back. "Bella, all you have to do push of the ground and just swing. The trick to going higher is sticking your legs out when you go back and tucking them back when you go forward." I did was she said, I didn't go as high as she said I would, but it was a start. "To get of just don't push yourself as much and when you're low enough, use your feet to stop." I felt so proud of myself and when I looked back at her, a smile was tugging at the corners of her red lips. Right then a wind picked up and her long striking black hair flew into a beautiful mess in the air. They then fell in tendrils of curls around her face. Her mouth moved slowly in this memory, the sounds not reaching my young ears. My eyebrows pulled together, she chuckled at my confused expression.

"Are you ready to go sweetheart?" she repeated louder.

"Yes." I said. My mother opened her arms to me; the love she expressed warmed my young soul.

With a little hop I got off the swing and stumbled towards her, stealing a hug. She let go of me and set out her hand. I grabbed it, looked up and smiled into the shining sun that framed her face.

_Drip_

I opened my eyes, quickly pulled from my memory. My mother's hand was replaced with the cold swing chain. I cursed the rain under my breath, but praised it silently. The memory came with my permission and the happiness made my heart clench. The ghost of a past lifestyle still lingered here. I longed for that sense of fulfillment again, the pride and self-esteem I once contained within me. Now nothing was left except emptiness brought on from years of disappointment.

A cool sensation passed across my shoulder. I felt a single rain drop slide down my collarbone. Without thinking I sat down on the swing sighing to myself, my eyes fluttered close in calm. My body pushed the swing back to begin the tell-tale motions. Back and forth I went, eyes still close taking in the quiet.

For once I allowed my walls to fall in this time of peace. I built height, then a rumble filled the air and my eyes shot open. Right in front of me the storm formed. I wasn't ready to go, to stubborn to leave. A foolish plan formed in my head, my conscious trying to shoot it down while my inner stupidity was doing its job of making me continue. They battled for a moment. Stupidity won.

Now with a mission I steadied myself on the seat, securing my body to it so I would not fall. A rain drop fell on my forehead; I wiped it off ignoring the sign that what I was going to do was ridiculous. I began swinging the way my mother taught me how to.

My eyes were set on the forming clouds. They went from their dark lavender to the predictable formations of gray and eerie silver. They moved with urgency, building its wrath, its power, its strength. Light shot through the clouds in the far distance of my peripheral vision, yet I didn't pay much mind to it. My sights were set on the forming clouds in front of me. Continuously I swung back and forth, gripping the cold hard rusted chains tightly. Keeping hold as I built momentum; rising higher and higher towards the clouds that sung a melancholy ballad. I tried with all my might, my mind wandering to the need to reach for the clouds. I grinned with satisfaction of my progress; with a childish determination I outstretched my arm, letting go of one side. Immediately instinct told me to put it back to prevent myself from falling. My resolve did not waver, my decision was made. Again I built more power with the strategic kicking of my legs, back and forth. At that moment my senses were heightened, intensified to an abnormal degree. I could almost hear the rapid beating of rain drops on my cheeks, the distinct smell of cold and rain forming in the air. Or the bitter taste of electricity on my tongue when I gasped in the shear intensity of the moment. I continued with my foolish goal, persevering through what I knew to be impossible. My tongue jutted out the side of my mouth, my lips squeezed around it, eyebrows furrowed and jaw taut. I thrived to catch the storm before it caught me. I needed some control to settle the nagging fire that nestled within me conscious. Finally with a crack of lightning, rain fell. I was caught, I was trapped. I had no control. Especially when stinging pricked my eyes and my tears mixed with the falling rain.

I couldn't control her from leaving; I couldn't reach her in time.

Upon returning home, my father didn't even react to me looking like a drowning cat. I walked to my room, not caring that my shoes left black foot prints in the carpet. I didn't even care when I collapsed on my bed and kept my soiled shoes while I curled in the fetal position. My tears haven't completely subsided; they just fell at random times as my body remained shaking with sobs. I grabbed my phone and dialed the number I've dialed a million times. I knew what was going to happen; it would go directly to her voice-mail because she'll never be able to pick up her phone. It was the only way I could hear her voice when I needed to. "Hi, you've reached Renee, I'm sorry I couldn't get your call. Please leave a message after the beep."

I called her number as many times as I could until my phone died.

So as I lay awake in my room, still soaked and still damaged by the weather, I contemplated the other ways I was damaged. People still give me looks, my father barely acknowledges my existence, and I called my dead mother's phone just to hear her voice. I guess I'm ok.

A/N Review :) Thank You


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm guessing you went there again,"

I let out a grunt, not trusting my voice at the moment. I didn't have to turn

around to look at his face, I knew he was disgusted. Anyone can hear it in his voice

or see it on his face. I could at least avoid one out of the two.

"And you're still paying the phone bill I see."

I nodded; I could still hear her voice on the voicemail. With that thought I couldn't hold back the feeble whimper that left me.

He sighed, "And you're crying too?!"

A part of me hoped that it was sympathy in his voice. I buried my head into the pillow even more, hoping in vain for the pain to stop long enough for the tears to disappear, long enough for him to not hate me any more than he already does for being so weak. It was my fault, why was I allowed to cry about something I caused.

"I'm sorry dad, I just can't."

"Don't. Just stop crying ok, dinners downstairs." He let out a grunt tapped his foot

4 times then left the room. I cried even harder than because that was the first time

my father spoke to me since the end of my mother's funeral.

When I joined him at the table his head was ducked down above a bowl of soup. I

didn't expect a grand feast, but a bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup was

better than a 10 dollar bill, stack of menus and a phone; this showed some effort.

I remember everything about that night; the sleep deprivation, the anger, the

desperation, and that moment when all hope was gone. I died in that moment, and

so did she.

She screamed, the sound tearing the very core of me. I stumbled towards her

grabbing her hand, she scratched violently at her neck, howling from the pain. Her

eyes rolled back and her teeth sank into her bottom lip, drawing blood. I stared in

horror thinking that this wasn't real life.

"Just calm down and breathe. I know it's hard but try for me. Love me enough to try for me. It'll all be over. Dad is coming back with the Tramadol."

She whimpered and gasped, calming down as I stroked her hair. I could see the

strain in her eyes to keep herself calm. I knew at that moment that her being calm

was benefitting me more than her. Help was on its way, my dad would hate to

come home and find the house empty, I didn't even have a phone.

"Mom, the medication is coming just wait until the pharmacy opens." I whispered.

I looked at her; her entire body gleamed with sweat. Her eyes shifted from left to

right and scrunched close in pain. She looked all wrong, her hair was wet mess

strewed about on the pillow drenched in her sweat. She wasn't herself, she wasn't

wearing a patterned dress, or a smile; just a black tank top and tattered sweats. She

closed her eyes and hummed. Then all went silent. It was too silent, too calm. I

climbed over her on the bed to listen to her heart. It thumped quickly in her chest,

it wasn't normal none of it was normal. She broke the calm with a howl and

quieted down into a guttural groan.

"I can't sweetie. Not anymore, five years is too long to die. It hurts sweetie. My heart, it can't take the pain anymore."

"You can't just , you can't do this," I could hear it, she was giving up.

"I wish I could take the pain from you, I wish I could take it all away." I was sobbing, angry at her for making me see all of this making me feel useless. She stroked my hair and I looked at her eyes again. She wasn't straining as much, but it was still there.

"Just call the ambulance, don't tell them what's wrong, and don't wait for your father." She stage whispered.

"What do you want me to do then, let you die?"

"You're not letting me die."

Her eyes closed and she let out a growl.

I couldn't watch this anymore, and like the obedient daughter I called 911.

"Come quick, my mom is dying."

A withdrawal, that's what took my mom, that's what made her final hours

unbearable. Six years ago she needed brain and spinal cord surgery, something

about a deformity that could cause brain damage and paralysis. Out of fear she did

it, the surgery was a success and all went well. But I knew she wasn't the same

because recovery would take years. She experienced constant pain, describing it as

having her brain ripping apart. For years she took the pill Tramadol, little did we

know, halted use caused life threatening withdrawals. That night Charlie went to

work and my mother didn't have her medication. She wanted to see if she could

survive a day without it. She was wrong. I could still hear the howling, I could still

feel her nails digging into my arm when she wanted me to stop the muscle tremors.

I could still I feel myself loosing hope; losing myself when the doctor came back

and told me she was gone. I was only ten and I knew that I had lost my life.

Because I knew she gave up. In my mind my mother killed herself, because she let

her heart stop, she didn't fight, she left me and I couldn't control her will to live.

Now I had a father who came home and found the house in ruins, who would call

everyone on his contact list looking for his wife and daughter. If I thought about it

when my father found the home empty and my mother and I gone; that may have

been the final moments of my father's love for me. Because I saw the light in his

eyes die when he saw me and heard that she didn't make it. He knew I didn't take

care of her the way I was supposed to. He tapped his foot four times and sat next to

me. I expected a hug, a hand on my shoulder some comfort but looking back I

realized that he died too. So we both stared at the white linoleum floor in the silence that night.

"You shouldn't be crying." He took another sip of his soup and looked down as though he didn't say a word.

I knew it; he didn't think I deserved to be guilty.

"I know it's entirely my fault, I'll stop crying. I shouldn't be."

He dropped the spoon into the bowl and looked up at me confused. Some of it fell on his chest and he wiped at the scolding liquid.

"It's not your fault." He said. Grabbing a napkin and cleaning the mess around him.

"It is." I said simply, taking the first spoonful of my dinner. It made me feel a little better, or was it finally admitting my guilt out loud.

"It's not." He threw down the napkin and rubbed his temples in frustration. He was acting strange, like he really believed what he was saying.

I looked up at him, choking on another sob, wondering when they would finally stop.

"Then why don't you love me anymore daddy?" The tears silently slid down my face. I waited with baited breath for the words that would affect me more than anything.

He didn't answer me, he simply stood up and walked towards the sink and dumped his soup; leaving me in the silence. I pushed back my chair and placed my head between my knees and did what I knew best. I tried my best to survive this new heartache.

I calmed down long enough to walk back to my room and lay down on my bed. My head hurt from all the memories and crying, so I took four Advil's and laid down staring at the ceiling. Sleep took me eventually.

The next day I dressed for school quickly, blocking out my thoughts. I picked up my book bag and walked to the front door.

"Stop,"

I turned around and saw him sitting in his chair, a beer in hand. He fiddled with the beer top and flicked it, it landed at my feet. I bent down and picked it up, turning it around in my fingers.

"You look like her."

He grunted, then tapped his foot.


End file.
